Nov 132013
 
Opaque campadre, come gaze with me.
At sky's highest hardest blank, look--
Look where August's ochre moon's gone down
Beneath apportioned heaven as to a tomb,
Dead to all the world.  And dead, too, 
To you and to me--unless in finicky paraphrase
 
One's voice might arouse, might resurrect...
Untuck the lunar ogre from her starry bed--
Revived by no cold cloth of dawn, gelid gem,
Revived instead by what one voice intends:
By a few words in an ear, as, silverful shavings,
Or, more moody, less morose, pregnantest glow.
 
If imagination may amend what summer's
Final evening hour--too warm, too insistent--
For all its buttery largesse let fade to stars,
Then you and I may look, and look again
With longest look, at the moon gone down.

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